Strike Bros
by ComradeJim
Summary: As the Neuroi threat draws in on the Orussian motherland, eight young men with abnormal abilities are forced to leave their families behind to fight for their survival. However, in doing so, the fires of war soon cause them to realise that they have adopted a new family, one that shares a bond deeper than simple camaraderie.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

* * *

**Krasnoarmeysk Airfield**

**Volgograd, Orussia**

**January 14****th****, 1943**

A tense restlessness gripped the Officer's Country of Krasnoarmeysk as dawn shed its first light. The murmuring of pilots, aircrew and maintenance workers emerging from their tents and barracks was disturbed intermittently by the grumbling of the engines of planes and strikers returning from their night patrol.

The familiar grumbling that told the young _Kapitan _that it was time to get up.

Propping himself up on one arm, he glanced at the finely crafted silver timepiece that was bound to his wrist, the leather strap still relatively fresh and firm. Seven minutes past six. On the dot.

Lifting his legs over the edge of his cot, he noticed that his room mate's (or tent mate, rather) bunk was vacant, the grimy grey sheets folded up and laid at the head of the bed. Stretching his arms, he began to search with his left hand in the half-light for his uniform. He buttoned up the light brown shirt, before sliding his feet into his boots.

He drew a tin mug full of water from a pail in the corner of the tent. He downed half of it, relieving his dry throat, before splashing the rest of it across his face. The icy sting quickly slapped any remaining grogginess out of him. Finally, towelling his face and fixing his chestnut coloured hair, he caught his reflection in the still surface of the remaining water in the pail. A pair of bright green eyes looked back into his. He let out a small yawn.

He was three months from his sixteenth birthday.

He opened the tent's entrance flap, letting dim daylight and cold air spill in. He grabbed a dark leather jacket off the post of his bunk, a dark red scarf hanging around the collar, wrapping it around himself.

Captain Ilya Litvyak slung a kit bag around his shoulder, before stepping out into the cold Orussian morning.

He didn't hear the birds singing today. Even they must have been gripped by the apprehension that was taking hold of every person on the base, and most likely every person in the city of Volgograd that was behind the base. He looked up into the sky; grey clouds dominated it, like an endless sheet of damp cotton. Not ideal weather for flying in, he thought. His boots treaded across the grass as he made his way towards the hangars. The 'regular' Air Force housed most of their aircraft in either standard aluminium or canvas shelters, but the Striker hangar that Ilya was heading for was one of the more impressive structures on the base. A shelter that was protected by a full metre of steel and concrete, it was designed to withstand direct artillery and bombing, and housed some of the most vital weapons in the arsenal of the Orussian Air Force.

And he, as well as nearly two dozen other young officers around his age, were the ones using them. It was still a bit absurd whenever he thought of it that way, really.

Walking through the partially opened gate, he caught the smell of oil, petrol and gunpowder.

"Jan," he called out. "You in here?"

"Where else'd I be at this hour, boss?" a voice responded. Ilya looked over to the strikers, to see all six feet and five inches of his Muscovite wingman turning towards him.

"The planes good to go?" he inquired.

"Good as the day they rolled off the production line, sir." Jan answered. Ilya scowled slightly at the title. Being _Kapitan _of the Wizards was still something he was going to have to get used to.

"Oh, by the way, I managed to test firing the RS-82s from those pylons I rigged to the stabs on my _Shturmovik _on the patrol yesterday evening."  
Ilya raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And? How'd it go?"

"Just like I predicted! The rockets fired and detonated perfectly. You obviously have to keep your arms out of the way and your body straight when you fire, but it worked just as well as it does on the Army planes. What's even better is that we can attach them to pretty much all of our strikers!"

"Good man," Ilya smiled. "Thanks. I'd better get some grub and get the briefing under way."

"Do that." Jan said. "Also, Ilya," he continued, placing a large hand on his smaller superior's shoulder. "Just remember, no matter what happens up there today, just know that I'll always have your back."  
Ilya smiled again, returning the gesture. "You always have, mate."

* * *

Ilya rounded a block of tents to find the remainder of the 3rd Striker Aviation Squadron hanging around a small campfire. A tan-skinned young man was devoting the majority of his attention to a pot that was cooking over it. He lifted the lid to inspect the contents.

"Alright, soup's up you lot," he announced to the rest of the pilots present. The rest of the boys stopped whatever they were doing and lined up to ladle their breakfast into their tin cups. One of the taller pilots briefly sniffed the contents of his.

"Christ, it smells like something died in here, what the hell did you put in this, Padre?"

"Nothing you ain't gonna eat, Bershanski!" The cook retorted. "And for fuck's sake, don't use the lord's name in vain when I'm around! I'm probably destined for a millennium in Purgatory just from hanging around you damned heathens."

"I think your attitude's already seen you halfway there," A red-haired pilot muttered, as he tested a spoonful, grimacing slightly. Padre's culinary skills weren't particularly stellar, but the squad would much rather take his dishes instead of forcing through the slop served in the mess hall.

"Cut him a break, you can't exactly expect fine dining when the only ingredients you have access to are on the threshold of expiration," Ilya said, causing the rest of the boys to notice him.

"_Dobroye utro, tovarischii."_

"_Dobroye utro, Kapitan."_ They greeted as Ilya sat himself on one of the canvas chairs.

Bershanski moaned. "Can't we just get Khan to hunt us some rabbits or something? I can't remember the last thing I ate that didn't come out of a can."

"Oh yeah, just catch some rabbits. It's not like we're on an airbase on the outskirts of an industrial city with planes coming and going every five seconds," Khan himself responded.

"Heh, they really make 'em special over in the Ukraine, don't they Bershanski?" The redhead sneered.

"Fuck you, Kuznetsov."

"Yevgheny, Tolya, cool it!" Ilya barked at Bershanski and Kuznetsov, respectively.

"The last thing we all need is to be bitching at each other at a time like this. I know the nerves are dancing right now, but we've gotta keep a cool head if we want to do well here."

"Sorry, boss," Bershanski apologised. Tolya kept quiet.

"Remember gents, briefing's at 0700. We're only going to go through it once, so you all better be there."

* * *

The briefing room would have been dead silent if not for the voice of Major Kozhedub addressing her squadron.

"…Finally, B flight will run a combat air patrol over the western sector to keep the airspace sanitised. Any questions?"

None.

"Good. Now, if I could ask Captain Litvyak to step up and brief us on 3rd squadron's role in the operation."

Ilya rose from his seat and separated from the seven other boys he was seated with. He stepped up to the front of the room.

"Thank you Major," he said, sliding a pair of wire-framed glasses onto his face. He found that he was needing them less and less, recently.

"Good day everyone. Today, 3rd Squad is being tasked with aerial reconnaissance and spotting for the 7th and 12th Battalions in the northern sector."

He gestured to the map showing the land to the west of the city of Volgograd. He heard shuffling and slight mumbling from the direction his team were sitting in.

"Seriously? That's what we're getting stuck with today?" Padre whispered to Vasili, the Squadron's sniper. The stick-thin marksman simply shrugged his shoulders in response.

"Eh? I figured you'd be relieved that we're not getting dropped in the thick of it." Mik, the squad's youngest member, inquired.

"I am. I'm just not exactly flattered that this is all that the brass thinks we're capable of."

"Padre, you listening back there?" Ilya snapped.

"Uh… _da, Kapitan._"

"As I was saying; orders are to observe any and all Neuroi threats in the northern and eastern areas, and call them out to the ground troops. Now the 7th and 12th have about 400 cannons between 'em ready to turn the area west of the Volga into the surface of the moon if they have to. We shall also be redirecting air assets as the situation requires. Now, and I must stress this, we are _not _to engage any of the ground targets unless it is absolutely necessary… Tolya, you listening?"

"Why ya singling me out?"

"No reason." There was. "However," he continued, "although 2nd Squadron's C flight will be helping to achieve air superiority, we are allowed to engage any aerial targets that may be posing an imminent threat to either us or the ground forces."

"Now, we will be adopting our regular two flight formation. I'll be leading D flight, while Lieutenant Budanov," he gestured to Jan, "will be commanding E flight. Bershanski, you'll be flying on my wing. Kuznetsov, Beliaev, you two will be forming No. 2 element of D flight."

Tolya looked like he had an objection to make, however, he kept his mouth shut.

"Budanov and Khan will be No. 1 element, E flight, while Padre and Pavlichenko will be taking up the rear. Any questions?"

Again, none.

"Alright then. Major."

"Thank you for that Captain, dismissed."

Ilya stepped off to the side, before Kozhedub started addressing the eleven other witches and seven wizards in front of her.

"That's settled then. We are all expected in the air by 0815, so get your gear ready and prepare to roll out. You all know what to do. Good hunting ladies and gentlemen."

* * *

"What I don't get is why they can't simply get the regular Air Force to deal with this crap. Haven't they got entire squadrons specifically for that purpose?"

"C'mon Padre, ya never know, if we do this job well we might be allocated to something closer to the action," Mik replied.

"I'm just saying it's a bit of a waste of resources, especially since the friggin' witches got all the big tasks for this one."

Chatter and the growling of Striker engines starting up echoed through the hangar. Ilya was finishing inspecting his Yak when he felt someone tap his shoulder. He twisted his head to see Tolya with a deep frown on his face.

"Something the matter Red?" _Well, I'm sure I already know, anyway._

"Yeah, there is. My wingman." _Yep, knew it. _"What's the deal chief? Why'd you pair me with Mik? The kid can barely hold his gun straight."

"Give him a chance, he can keep up with the rest of us and has no problems keeping his wits-"

"He's twelve, Ilya," Tolya cut him off. "You know that he's only gonna end up holding me back."

"And that is exactly what your problem is!" Ilya stood up, adopting a firmer tone. "You think that you're the only person in the air at times; just because you have the highest kill count, you think that you don't need anybody else." Tolya opened his mouth to say something, but Ilya cut him off.

"Well guess what; that attitude _will _get you killed. I know you're good, Red, but you're not a one-man air force. Tell me, do you honestly think you can take an entire swarm of _cherniy_ by yourself?" Tolya was lost for words.

"Besides," he continued, looking him in one of the icy blue eyes that contrasted with his fiery red hair, "you can consider this your test."

"Test?" Tolya's eyebrow shot up. "What do you mean?"

"You want to make flight leader, don't you? You take care of Mik, show me you can handle responsibility, and I'll recommend you for promotion."

Tolya seemed surprised. "But wait," he replied, "How's that gonna work? Three flight leaders and only two flights?"

"You've been hearing about all the new wizards, guys like us, that have been popping up recently? No reason our team isn't going to get bigger in a few months. Once we get enough members to warrant having a third flight, you'll be the first on my list."

His eyes lit up slightly. "Alright then," he shrugged his shoulders, playing it cool. "I'll take care of little Miki. I'll do my best chief."

"Good," Ilya replied. "Alright, I've got a few things to take care of," he said, grabbing a small toolbox that was sitting next to his Striker. He walked off to the other side of the hangar, where the witches' equipment was. One of them, a tall blonde girl wearing a hair band, waved to him.

"Hi Aleks," he greeted her, before passing her the toolbox, "thanks for the lend, I owe ya one."

"You owe me ten already," she smirked. "So, were you adjusting your engine controls like I was telling you about?"

"Yeah, I tried it out the other day. Not much of a difference flying straight and level, but I can certainly feel the boost in a climb."

"Good to know." Aleksandra was an engineering prodigy. With the amount of adjustments she'd made to her own P-39, it could probably run circles around the Liberion ones that had just gotten off the production line.

"Oh, congratulations on making Captain, by the way," he said, pointing at the new rank insignia on her shoulder. "When did that come about?"

"Just last night," she answered. "The Major approached me and told me she wanted me to head up C Flight. Told me that I 'seem to command their admiration and respect.'" She smiled sheepishly.

"Excellent, now you'll know what it feels like staying up 'til one in the morning typing up after action reports!"

"Pft, I can just get Paula to do that for me." They both laughed.

"Listen, stay alive up there alright," he told her.

"Same to you, I'll be watching your back anyways."

Ilya unsung his DP-28 from his back, checking for the umpteenth time that its firing mechanism was clear.

"You still doing that?" She remarked. "You were always really overbearing when it came to weapon maintenance, even back in basic."

"Yeah, not a lot has changed in two years, has it?"

Aleks smiled again. "Two years already, eh?"


	2. Chapter 2

November 18th, 1940

The shock of an explosion rocked the crowded shelter, causing a stream of dirt and cement to trickle down from the ceiling. The dim light bulb that was suspended from the ceiling flashed and flickered for a moment. Outside, the pounding reports of anti-aircraft guns started up once again. A baby started wailing, its young mother hurriedly hushing it to quieten down.

"Sergei," Ilya whispered to the boy huddled up against the wall beside him. "Sergei, are you alright?"

"Mm-hm," came the muffled reply. This was clearly not the time or place for idle small-talk, but Ilya couldn't help it. He was uneasy. And it wasn't just because they were being bombed. He wasn't feeling well; his head was hurting again, he felt like there was a wasp buzzing around in his skull. From outside the metal door of the bomb shelter, he was beginning to hear the panicked shouts of the soldiers.

"…it's coming back this way, turn it around!"

"Fire, damn it!"

"Oh, Hell!"

Then it started again. Ilya's face turned bone-white. _Shit, not again. _First came the ringing, like someone had stuck an alarm clock inside his head. Then, a split-second after, came the pain. The blinding pain that overtook his consciousness. The sight in front of Ilya's eyes suddenly dematerialised, his legs collapsed from beneath him. But he didn't feel the fall. Instead, he felt as if somebody was slicing a blade through the middle of his brain.

The mass of scared bodies in the dimly lit bunker had faded into the grey skies above. He could see the entire town, like he was watching down like a hawk. Then, he saw the _cherniy._ Four of them, screaming across the skies. He made out every detail of them; the tar black, fly-like bodies, the sharp, swept back wings, and the gaping maws that spat fire and metal. They darted around the black clouds of smoke and shrapnel that the cannons on the ground fired at them. One of them suddenly dived, not smoothly and gracefully like a bird, but suddenly, quickly like an insect. It dropped a pair of bottle shaped objects before pulling up again. The bombs glided into a group of army trucks situated in the main street, causing a blast of flame and black smoke to belch skyward.

Then, he saw the bodies. They dotted the street, limbs splayed and contorted at impossible angles. Somewhere in the distance, the wail of an ambulance siren started up.

The _cherniy _pitched up and sped off in the direction of the Black Sea. The AA guns ceased firing as they exited their effective range.

"..ya? Ilya? Ilya, what's wrong?" He made out Sergei's voice. It was pitch black. He realised that his eyes were actually squinted shut. He gradually opened them, and saw Sergei's face take form in front of him.

"I…ah…" His head was throbbing. The skull splitting pain had resided, but his head still felt like it was filled with lead.

"You've gone real pale. Do you think you need to see the doctor?"

"Wha…I…no, I, I'll be fine." _Will I really? _He looked towards the entrance of the shelter.

"I think they're gone now."

"Huh?" Sergei looked at the entrance, then back at Ilya. "How can you be so sure?"

Ilya stood himself up. The air stank of sweat and dirt. He needed to get out, into the open. He heard the hatch of the steel door guarding the entrance to the shelter turning, before it was pushed open. A pair of soldiers gestured the people out. Ilya and Sergei piled out with the crowd. A light drizzle sprayed itself on Ilya's face. He took a deep breath of the cold air. It helped to clear his head out a bit. He then took in his surroundings. His heart sank. To the south end of town, numerous pillars of smoke rose into the clouds. Just down the street lay the shattered remains of an AA gun battery. The gun was a warped wreck of twisted metal, while the crew was… the crew wasn't there. Instead, there were crimson smears on the pavement and walls of nearby buildings. Ilya averted his gaze quickly. The east end, however didn't seem like it had been attacked.

"Come on, we'd better get home already, it's almost evening time," Sergei urged.

"Yeah," Ilya sighed. "Oh Christ, what are we gonna do about that essay we got from Mr. Kadinski? There's no way I'm going to be able to get it finished in time."

"Just say your bag got destroyed in the last raid," Sergei answered as they began walking down the street, to where they had left their bikes.

"That what you gonna do?"

"Yep."

"Ya know he's still going to give you a bollocking regardless, right?"

"Eh, it's worth a shot. God, you'd wish the bloody _cherniy _would bomb something like the school and not people's houses or the barracks."

A faint droning buzzed overhead. The pair looked up to see a trio of biplanes flying west, towards where the raiders had come from.

"I-15s," Ilya noted, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "_Chaikas."_

"Typical bloody air force. Always arriving _after _the damage is done. How'd you tell what exactly what they are from this distance anyway?"

"Oh, that's easy, you can tell by their retractable undercarriage. Also both decks of the wings are connected to the fuselage as opposed to-"

"That's…quite enough, thanks." They arrived at the street corner they left their bikes at.

"Ah shit!" Ilya exclaimed out loud. His bike lay in pieces on the foot path; the frame was snapped in two, the chain was gone and the front wheel was nowhere to be seen. Sergei's bike, on the other hand, had escaped relatively unscathed.

"Why me? Papa's going to kill me," he moaned.

"That is some luck you've got there, mate," Sergei remarked.

"I'll gladly swap with you," Ilya muttered. "You go on home, I'll just hoof it back to my place."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Sergei paused. "You sure you're okay? You looked like you were possessed back in the shelter."

"I said I'm fine!" He snapped.

"Okay, just being a concerned friend," he muttered, mounting his bike. "Take care," he said before pedalling off.

The sky was already darkening. The harsh Caucasian wind howled through the emptying streets, causing Ilya's overcoat to flap as he started on his way home. He didn't mind the wind. He didn't mind the cold, actually. The fresh air was already freeing up his senses, he was feeling much better now than when he had left the bunker. Still, he wanted to get home and let Papa know he was alright as soon as he could. The fastest way would be to go through an alley between a café and a tailor's, then by cutting across main street and following the path east.

Within ten minutes he found himself on the main street.

It was a bad decision to come this way. Soldiers and citizens were at work clearing the charred corpses off the road. He tried not to look, and broke into a run as he made across the street, towards the corner, where a jeweller's lay. His heart sank as he saw that the previously finely decorated shop front now lay in a mess of rubble and broken glass. He stood there a minute, gazing at it. The roof had been caved in. He had never been inside, but he knew the owner, Mister Sadak, was a friend of Papa's. He also knew he had three children; his daughter, Ludmila, went to Ilya's school. He sighed. _That's one more family without a livelihood now. _

He turned heel, but stopped. He heard ragged breathing behind him, then spluttering. His blood chilled, it was coming from the remains of the shop.

"H-help…me." Ilya spun back around and dashed into what was left of the shop.

"Mr. Sadak, are you there?" He was. Trapped under what looked like half of the ceiling. A large fragment of a marble pillar had him pinned to the floor at the waist and he looked like he had cut himself badly on some glass.

"Oh god, hold on. Somebody help!" He called out. It was no use. There was nobody else around and he doubted that anyone else could hear him. There was also a gathering pool of blood by Mr. Sadak's side; he wouldn't make it if he had to wait any longer. He had to act.

He hesitated. Papa had warned him so many times not to show it. But, damn it, somebody's life was in danger here, and he wasn't going to stand idle.

"Hang on," he grunted, gripping the large pillar with both hands. He didn't know how much it weighed, but he knew marble was _heavy._ He braced his legs, and lifted. He lifted it off of the jeweller's waist, and flung it off to the side. Sadak gasped in relief, as Ilya set to work removing the rest of the debris from his legs.

"Here sir, can you stand," He asked, offering his hand.

"Bless you, you're a godsend," came the wheezy reply, as Ilya hauled the forty-seven year old up by himself. He dragged him outside.

"Can I get some help over here, this man is bleeding badly!" He shouted into the street. A pair of soldiers trotted up with a stretcher.

"Who is this anyway?" Sadak coughed, turning his head. "Young Litvyak, is that you?" He gasped in disbelief.

"He's looking bad, we've got to get him to hospital as soon as possible," one of the troops said.

"You did a good job, little man," the other said, tussling Ilya's hair. He hated when people other than Papa did that, but he let it slide this time.

"You head on home, we'll take care of him."

"Okay, thank you!" Ilya said as he headed home. He made it to the top of the street again, where the jeweller's was.

He was suddenly struck with the feeling of eyes boring into his back. He twisted his head around. His instinct proved correct. Right across from the jeweller's, he glimpsed a pair of young soldiers in officer's uniform, a man and a woman, staring at him.

_Dammit! _He thought. _They must have been watching the whole thing._ He kept walking at a brisk pace, but the uneasiness wouldn't go away. When he rounded the street corner, out of their view, he broke into a full run. He didn't know why, but he was scared, more scared than he had ever felt in his life.

He didn't stop until he arrived in the street where his flat was.


	3. Chapter 3

The rain came down heavy. The people in the streets hurried to clear the dead out of the open before scurrying back indoors. The cobblestones lining the footpaths quickly turned slick. The two young officers broke into a run.

"Here, Ivana, this looks like a good place," the man said to his female colleague as they stopped in the doorway of the local pub. The woman pushed open the door. The pub was nearly empty, the few patrons inside more interested in their drink than the present company. Well, it is about seven in the evening on a Tuesday, the man thought. It was dimly lit by a handful of oil lamps dotted at each table. Not very functional, but it gave an atmosphere. Ivana tapped him on the arm and gestured to a booth in a corner of the bar. They both removed the caps from their heads and sat down facing each other. The man pulled out a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, flipping it open, before clicking a pen.

"Well, what did you make of that?" Ivana started. She lowered her voice. "Do you think he might be one of us?"

"Certainly looks like it. A regular schoolboy his size and age certainly wouldn't have been able to lift that rubble. He seemed to have caught a vibe about us as well. Oh and, 'one of us'? You make us sound like aliens or something, Ivana," he chortled.

"So, abnormal muscle strength and possible threat perception. This one's definitely looking promising. Now, we just need to find out who he is and talk to him."

A waiter walked over to their booth. "Now then, can I get anything for you, sirs?"

"Nothing for me, thank you," Ivana answered.

"Ah, I'll have a small Stolichnaya, please."

"Marin! We're on the job!"

"Oh lighten up, I said only a small one," he responded as the waiter went over to the bar.

She sighed. "Well, that jeweller he dragged out seemed to know him. We should start by asking him."

"Mm-hm. Failing that, we can simply scout out the local school and ask for student records. Not like we're trying to be especially discreet about this."

"I hope we're right about this one. If we are…this will be the eighth one we've found in Orussia alone. Aside from you, of course."

"I can only imagine how many more of them are going to awaken around the rest of the world. Remember, one of them is a refugee from Hispania, and another is a Mongol."

The waiter returned with Marin's drink. "Here you are, sir."

"_Spasiba."_

"I'm telling ya, that stuff's gonna kill you early."

"Ah, who wants to live forever?" He asked as he took a swig from the bottle.

* * *

Ilya fumbled with the key to the front door of the red brick building in the half light, as the rain soaked through his coat. He turned in the lock and pushed the door open. To his surprise his father was still at his work counter, speaking with Mr. Voronin, the manager of the grocery shop. His father looked at him.

"Ilya! What kept you so long, it's past seven o'clock already and they gave the all clear an hour ago!"

"Sorry papa, I got caught up in some of the cleaning up in main street." Well, he wasn't lying. His father shook his head.

"Well, go on upstairs. I'll be up to you shortly." The two were obviously discussing something. Ilya climbed the stairs and went to his room. He pulled off his overcoat, hanging it on the chair that was slid beneath his desk, before kicking off his shoes. He collapsed onto his bed.

The day's events worried him. First, there was that…he didn't know what to call it… 'sensation', that he felt in the bomb shelter. The thing that _really_ worried him was that that wasn't the first time it had happened. The last time there was an air raid, about two weeks ago, during class time, it happened. He nearly collapsed in front of his entire class. The _cherniy _were attacking the harbour that time, and he could _see _it happening, even though he was on the other side of the town. He came to only when they retreated back to the sea, as well.

Then, there was the thing with the two officers at the jeweller's. They watched him lift almost a tonne of rubble by himself. He sighed. After all the times his dad had told him to keep it hidden.

Very little about his life had been making sense in the past two years. First, he suddenly noticed that he was strong. _Very _strong. As in, he could lift things a lumberjack probably wouldn't be able to. Not to mention, he had ran flat out back to his house for ten minutes, and when he reached the door, he wasn't out of breath in the slightest. His father knew. He told him to keep it under wraps, said he would be outcast.

_"People fear what they don't know or understand, Ilya." _The words echoed in his head.

Then, last year, the _cherniy _started coming. The locals first thought that the west were attacking. The truth was far worse. They kept coming from the Black Sea, always attacking the harbour and the army barracks. Apparently they were attacking Gelendzhik, a town to the south, as well. He had read a newspaper report about it a few months ago. The military were calling them the 'Neuroi.' They were attacking all over the world apparently; Paris had been completely turned to rubble in the space of a day.

The rain hammered against the glass of his bedroom window. He closed the curtains on it, before flicking on the lamp on his desk, bathing the room in a soft, soothing glow. Deciding to not pay too much mind to the day's events, he sat down and tried his best to finish off his schoolwork. At around half past eight, he decided to catch an early night.

* * *

"Well then, what have you got?" Marin asked, the next morning, as Ivana opened her notebook. She was sitting across the desk from him, in the officer's mess of the Novorossiysk barracks.

"Ilya Litvyak, born 27th of April, 1927. His father, Boris, is the local watchmaker here. His mother, Olga, died of illness in 1930. No siblings. Academics are above average, shows a particular interest in languages and history, as well as military aviation. He's known to be quite athletic compared to most of his schoolmates, no interest in sports though."

"Excellent digging, as always, Major Kozhedub," Marin replied.

Ivana leaned back in her chair. "Now then, how do you propose that we approach him?"

Marin's response rolled off of his tongue.

"He rescued that jeweller, didn't he? Why, he deserves to be recognised for such a heroic act! I say we make it our business to see to it that this young man is rightfully commended for his display. In fact, I do believe that he is a prime candidate for a new, elite military unit. Our empire is in dire need of youth with such courage and moral direction, is it not?"

Ivana smirked wryly. "Smooth bastard."


	4. Chapter 4

It had turned into a pretty enough day. Cracks in the low hanging clouds allowed silver streams of late afternoon sunlight to spill onto the town and Tsemes bay, the light dancing upon the grey waves. Ilya had a nice view of it from the hill that his neighbourhood was built upon. He fixed the red scarf that was wrapped around his neck as a cold wind blew from the mountains to the south. He liked coming out here; he was sitting in his favourite spot on a low stone wall that gave a good overlook on the town and the bay. There were no longer any pillars of smoke rising from the docks, except for the smokestacks of a handful of Navy destroyers chugging in and out of the harbour, leaving smooth wakes in the surface of the water.

He'd had a, thankfully, uneventful day at school. It was good to be able to return to relative normality, if only for a day. Sergei hadn't mentioned anything with regards to the day before, apart from the fact that he still got bollocked for not doing his homework. He decided to get up and start up the cobblestone footpath that led back to his house. After a three minute walk, he arrived at the door of the red brick building that doubled as his home and his father's watch shop. On the ground floor, as you walked in the front door, was the front counter, with a row of glass display cases lined up. Through the doorway behind the counter was a small kitchen and a workshop. Upstairs were a pair of bedrooms and a small living room that acted as a private space for Ilya's dad during his off hours.

It may have been a bit cramped and basic, but it was his home. And, to be truthful, he doubted he would rather have it any other way.

Opening the door, he stepped into the hallway that led to the shop and the wooden staircase. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the front desk unmanned, the display cases closed over. That was strange, usually his father would still be working for a couple of hours after Ilya returned from school.

"Papa," he called out. "I'm home."

Voices came from the kitchen. "Ilya," his father responded, "Could you come in here, please?" There was clear tone of concern in his voice. Ilya's pulse quickened slightly.

"Uh, sure." He stuck his coat on the hook by the stairs, before walking around the counter and into the confined corridor that connected the kitchen and the workshop.

"What's the matte-" He stopped as he saw a pair of officers in Air Force uniform sitting at the table.

The same officers he saw yesterday evening.

_Shit. _He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying that out loud in front of Papa. The man turned his head and smiled at him. He was quite handsome; squared jawbones and a slicked, black haircut created a photogenic facial expression. _Well, most pilots are good looking anyway, _he thought.

"Ah! Here's the young pillar of society!" He announced theatrically. Ilya didn't like where this was heading.

"These two came in a few minutes ago, asking for you," His father started, leaning against the kitchen counter. His brow furrowed in bemusement as he ran his hand over his head, as if he still had hair left to run it through.

"Who are you, what do you want, and how do you know who I am and where I live?!" Ilya blurted out.

"Ilya! Watch your manners."

"It's quite alright, we're at fault ourselves for not introducing ourselves," the man said, standing up.

"Mister and Master Litvyak, my name is Lieutenant Colonel Marin Raskov, of the Imperial Air Force."

_Raskov, _Ilya thought. The name rang a bell.

The woman followed Raskov's suit, speaking for the first time. She faced Ilya.

"Hello Ilya, I'm Major Ivana Kozhedub, pleased to meet you." She extended her hand to him. She smiled slightly, however, there was a sincerity in her eyes that allowed him to relax a little bit. She took off her cap, revealing shoulder length brown hair. Hesitantly, he shook her hand.

"Well then, to what do we owe the visit?" Papa inquired, as the pair sat back down. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"Nothing for us, thanks," Kozhedub answered quickly, just as Raskov was about to open his mouth. "Anyway, we should get down to business, shouldn't we?" She nudged Raskov with her elbow.

"Quite," he said. "Would you care to take a seat, young man?"

"You're sitting in the only two chairs," Ilya replied dryly, as he leaned against the counter next to his father.

"Oh, my apologies," he went to stand.

"It's alright, stay where you are," Ilya said, sternly. "Now, down to business, like you said." His eyes bored into him.

Raskov chuckled slightly. _Kid has balls, _he thought.

"Young sir, you were observed yesterday evening at around a quarter to seven on the Main Street. You investigated a ruined jeweller's and took it upon yourself to rescue the shop's owner, who was trapped under the rubble, before carrying him outside and ensuring he received medical attention."

Papa's eyebrows shot up, his eyes widening. Ilya's blood chilled.

"Is that correct?" Raskov added.

Ilya swallowed, before speaking shakily. "I...I only did what anyone else would have done. He needed help."

"Anybody else would have asked for an extra pair of hands to help lift that pillar," Kozhedub said. "You lifted it off of him and hurled it off to the side, all by yourself."

Ilya's eyes shot down to the oak wood floor. He felt Papa's hand rest on his left shoulder.

"Why are you looking so accused?" Raskov asked. That was a good question, actually. "You saved a man, you should be proud of that."

Ilya let out a sigh. These two clearly weren't here simply to pat him on the back. He'd revealed himself in front of a pair of military personnel.

Raskov spoke up again, in a less formal tone. "Ilya, I assume you've heard of the 'Witches'?"

The question caught him off guard. Of course, most people knew of the Witches. He'd often heard the older boys at school talk about them. But why was he asking him that?

"Yeah, course I have."

"And?"

Damn it, what was he playing at here?

"They're people- well, girls- that are really good at fighting. They can do things like stop bullets and see into the future. They're really strong as well. They also fly using those, um, Strikers, was it? Yeah." He paused. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Well, there's one sitting right in front of you, to start with." Raskov chuckled again, nodding towards Kozhedub. Ilya's brow shot up in surprise. Their two names clicked in his head.

"I remember reading about you in the paper, a couple of months ago. Marin Raskov... You're that engineer, the first man to fly a Striker and bring down a...what do you military types call them again?...A Neuroi."

"Guilty as charged," he smirked, before adopting a more serious facial expression.

"I figured you two were a bit young to hold ranks like that," Papa grumbled. Both of them barely looked like they were going into their twenties. "What does any of this have to do with my son?"

The young colonel stood up.

"We think he has potential." Raskov's reply was blunt. "We think he might be able to fight the Neuroi."

"What?!" Papa almost shouted. "That's ridiculous. The only ones who have been able to do that are all women!"

"We both thought so ourselves, until recently," Kozhedub replied, standing up herself, folding her arms.

"Case in point; me." Raskov interjected. "And you're not the only one. We've been finding lads like yourself popping up here and there. Seven in total, eight if we include yourself."

Ilya had no idea what to say. He was struggling to find the right words, or the right thoughts even. Finally, he blurted out;

"What the hell are you saying?"

The two officers were silent for a moment, as Raskov formulated his answer.

"We think you're a wizard, Ilya."


End file.
